He did not come back to her.
The last thing he said to her on his way out involved many harsh words and backward stares. He lit a cigarette as he walked out the front door, hands searching his pockets for his keys. Throwing his pack into the backseat of his ’69 Dodge, he looked back at her one last time.
“You know, I do love you. Still, I doubt this is going to work.”
He said it with such condensation, such contempt. He smirked at her with the smile that had been the stinging lemon juice in the tiny cuts inflicted upon her during so many of their conversations.
He started the car, the exhaust staining the air with a dirty cough. He rumbled off, the night air cool, the wind playing with her summer dress as she watched him go.
A meteor etched a brief, spectacular arc and winked out.